_ CHAPTER XXXI. THE CLOSE OF THE LONG TRAIL
Bell River lay far behind. Leagues beyond the shadowy hills serrating the purple horizon, it was lost like a bad dream yielding to the light of day.
For Kars the lure of it all was broken, broken beyond repair. The wide expanses of the northland had become a desert in which life was no longer endurable. The wind-swept crests, the undulating, barren plains no longer spoke of a boundless freedom and the elemental battle. These things had become something to forget in the absorbing claim of a life to come, wherein the harshness of battle had no place. The darkling woods, scarce trodden by the foot of man, no longer possessed the mystic charm of childhood's fancy. The trackless wastes held only threat, upon which watchful eyes would now gladly close. The stirring glacial fields of summer, monsters of the ages, boomed out their maledictions upon ears deaf to all their pristine wrath. The westward streams and trail were alone desirable, for, at the end of these things, the voice was calling. The voice of Life which every man must ultimately hear and obey.
Such was the mood of the man who for years had dreamed the dream of the Northland; the bitter, free, remorseless Northland. To him she had given of her best and fiercest. Battle and peace within her bosom had been his. He was of the strong whom the Northland loves. She had yielded him her all, a mistress who knows no middle course. And now he was satiated.
She had gambled for his soul. She had won and held it. And, in the end, she had been forced to yield her treasure. Such is the fate of the Northland wanton, bending to the will of Nature supreme. Her hold is only upon superb youth, which must find outlet for its abounding life. She has no power beyond. The ripening purpose of the Great Creator thrusts her back upon herself, beaten, desolate.
The elemental in Kars was still a great living force. That could never change. Just now it was submerging in an ocean of new emotion he was powerless to deny. The strength of his manhood was undiminished. It was even greater for the revolution sweeping his estate. Just as the passionate fire of his elemental nature had swept him all his years, so now the claims of human love coursed through the strong life channels which knew no half measure. Now he yearned for the gentler dream, even as he had yearned for all that which can be claimed by strength alone.
His whole being was centred upon the goal towards which he was speeding. His light outfit was being driven by the speed of his desire.
So Bell River was far behind. All the wide wastes of forest and hill, of canyon and tundra, of glacier and torrent, had passed under his feet. Now the swift waters of Snake River were speeding under driven paddles. Another day and he would gaze once more into the sweet eyes which meant for him the haven his soul so ardently craved.
Bill Brudenell, too, had shaken himself free. The nauseating breath of Bell River had driven him before it. He, too, had loved the North. Perhaps he still loved his mistress, but he cursed her, too, and cursed her beyond forgiveness or recall. His eyes were turned to the west, like the eyes of his friend. But the only voice summoning him was the voice of a spirit wearied with the contemplation of men's evil. This was the final journey for him, and the long nights of the trail were spent in a pleasant dreaming of sunlit groves, of warming climes.
The faithful Charley was untouched by any gentler emotion. His crude mind was beyond such. He was satisfied that his boss had given the order to "mush." It mattered nothing to him if the journey ended at the Pole. Perhaps he regretted the Indians left behind him alive. But even so, there were compensations. Had he not a prisoner, a white man under his charge? And had his boss not assured him that that prisoner would hang by the neck at his journey's end? Yes, that was so. It seemed almost a matter for regret to his unsophisticated understanding that the hanging could not be done on the trail. That the joy of performing the operation might not be his own reward for faithful service. Still, his boss had spoken. It was sufficient.
Night closed down within thirty miles of Fort Mowbray. An early camp was made for food and rest. The journey was to go through the night that it might be completed before dawn broke.
In a few minutes the spiral of smoke from the camp-fire rose on the still air, and helped dispel the attacks of the mosquitoes. Then came the welcome smell of cooking. The Indian crew lolled about the dew-laden bank with the unconcern and luxury of men whose iron muscles are welcomely relaxed. One of their number was at the fire preparing food, and Charley hectored whilst he superintended. Kars and Bill were seated apart under the shelter of a bush. For the time they had charge of their prisoner.
Murray McTavish was unchanged in appearance, except that his smile had died from his round face and his curious eyes shone with a look that was daily growing more hunted. Nearly six weeks had passed since Kars' bullet had crashed through his arm, and left a shattered limb behind it. His final journey had had to be delayed while Bill had exercised his skill in healing that the prisoner might face his ultimate ordeal whole. Now the healing was nearing completion, but the irony of it all lay in the fact that the prisoner's well-being was of necessity the first thought of those who controlled the itinerary.
From the moment of Murray's capture his attitude had become definite and unchanging. His sufferings from his shattered arm were his own. He gave vent to no complaint. He displayed no sign. A moody preoccupation held him aloof from all that passed about him. He obeyed orders, but his obedience was sullen and voiceless.
But that which he refused to his captors by word of mouth, by action, was there for the reading. His big eyes could not remain silent. The mask-like smile was no longer part of him. The knowledge of his defeat, and all its consequences, looked out of glowing depths which shone with so mysterious a light. And daily the pages were turned for the reading of the tragedy, the scenes of which were passing behind them. Resolute in will he was powerless to deny emotion. And the eyes which saw and watched, day and night, on the long journey, read with perfect understanding. His mental sufferings were far beyond any that his wounded body could have inspired.
The westward goal for which his captors were making had a far different meaning for him. He only saw in it the harvest of defeat, and all it meant of human punishment. But far, far worse was the loss of all that which he had labored to achieve through his crimes. Nor was the sting of defeat lessened by the knowledge that it had been accomplished by the one man he had instinctively feared from his first meeting with him.
Now, as they waited while the Indian prepared a steaming supper of rough but welcome food, the three men sat with the smoke of their pipes doing battle with the mosquito hordes which cursed the country.
For long it remained a silent gathering. Such is the way of the long trail. Silence is the rule after the first routine has settled down. A week of close companionship, where Nature's silences are deep and unbroken, and all exchange of thought becomes exhausted. Only the exigences of labor can excuse verbal intercourse. Otherwise it would be intolerable. These three had labored long upon the trail in their different spheres. They accepted every condition.
The camp-fire threw its cheerful glow, and set the shadows dancing. The moon had risen, a golden globe just hovering above the horizon. Its yellow light searched out the three figures dimly, and the dancing flames of the camp-fire supported its effort.
Kars' eyes were directed upon the tongues of flame licking about the camp-kettle. But they held in their focus the round, undiminished figure over whom he sat ward. Bill sat facing the captive in full view of the slung arm in its rough splints. Murray seemed to have no concern for those about him. His haunted eyes were on the rising moon disc, and his thoughts were on all those terrible problems confronting him.
He smoked from habit, but without appreciation. He could have no appreciation now for bodily comfort when all mental peace was destroyed.
His pipe went out and Bill held matches towards him. Silently, almost automatically, he relit it, using his sound arm with the skill of weeks of practice.
He passed the matches back. He offered no thanks. Then, with a sudden stirring of his unshapely body, he glanced swiftly in the direction of Kars. A moment later he was gazing across at Bill and addressing him.
"We'll make the Fort before sun-up?" he said.
"Before daylight," came the prompt correction.
Kars had abandoned his pleasant train of silent thought. His keen eyes were alight with the reflection of the fire. They were searching the prisoner's face for the meaning of his inquiry.
"How long do we stop around?"
Murray's voice was sharp.
"We don't stop around." Again Bill's reply came on the instant, and in tones that were coldly discouraging.
"But I guess I need to collect things. My papers. Kit. I've a right that way. You can't deny it," Murray protested swiftly.
"You got no rights in this layout." It was Kars who replied. "You'll pass right on down the river for Leaping Horse. And you aren't stopping on the way to pay calls. Guess the p'lice in Leaping Horse will allow you your rights. But there's nothing doing that way till you're quit of this outfit."
His decision was coldly final, but it was a blow in the face which the murderer refused to accept.
"You can't act that way," he protested fiercely. "You got a charge against me you haven't proved, and I don't guess you ever will prove. I'm a prisoner by force, not by law. I demand the right to decent treatment. I need to get papers from the Fort. There's things there to help my case. Maybe you figger to beat me through holding me from my rights. It would rank well with the way you've already acted. I need to see Father Jose and Mrs. Mowbray and Jessie----"
"Cut that right out!" Kars' words came with a vicious snap. "You'll see no one till you're in the hands of the Mounted P'lice at Leaping Horse. That goes. I don't care a cuss for the law of this thing. We'll fix that all later."
Murray's burning eyes were furious as they searched the unyielding features of his captor. His absolute impotence drove him to an insane desire for violence. But the violence was not forthcoming. He was powerless, and no one knew it better than he.
"We surely will," he cried, hoarse with passion. "You can't prove a thing. Allan was murdered by the neches. I was at the Fort with the rest. You know that. Others can prove it."
The fierce anger which the mention of Jessie's name had set leaping in Kars' brain subsided as swiftly as it had risen. He sat silent for some moments regarding the storm-swept features of the man whose crimes had devastated the life of the girl he loved. His anger changed to an added loathing. And his loathing inspired a desire to hurt, to hurt mortally.
This man as yet knew nothing of the discovery of his second crime. The time had come when he must realize all that this thing meant to him. There were weeks of journey yet before him. Kars knew no mercy. The wild had taught him that mercy was only for the weak, for those who erred through that weakness. This man was not of those. He was a vicious criminal whose earthly reward would be inadequate to his crimes.
"That won't help you a thing," he said frigidly. He knocked out his pipe and thrust it into his pocket. His gaze was steadily fixed on the eyes so furiously alight as they watched his every movement. "There's more to this than the murder of Allan Mowbray, your share in which can be proved clear out. Guess you've acted pretty bright, Murray. I allow you've covered a whole heap of tracks. But you haven't covered them all. Guess there never was a murderer born who knew how to cover all his tracks. And it's just a mercy of Providence for the protection of us folk. If you'd covered your last tracks you'd have dropped your automatic in the Snake River, and lost it so deep in the mud it wouldn't have been found in years. But you didn't act that way, and that's why you're going to hang. You're going to hang for murdering the son, as well as the father, and the whole blamed world'll breathe freer for your hanging. Do you need me to tell you more? Do you need me to tell you why you're not landing at the Fort? No, I guess not. Your whole play is in our hands. You're here by force, sure, and by force you're goin' to stay. Just as I guess by force you're going to die. You've lived outside the law such a long spell I don't guess you need teaching a thing. If we're acting outside the laws of man now, I guess we're acting within the laws of justice. That's all that gets me where you figger. I guess we'll eat. Charley'll know how to hand you your food."
The prisoner made no reply. It was the final blow. Kars had withheld it till the psychological moment. He had withheld it, not with any thought of mercy, but with a crude desire to punish when the hurt would be the greatest.
He had achieved more than he knew. Buoyed with the belief that his earlier crime on Bell River had been so skilfully contrived that no court of law could ever hope to convict him of a capital offence, Murray McTavish had only endured the suspense and haunting fear of uncertainty. Now he realized to the full the disaster that had overtaken him. He was stunned by the blow that had fallen.
The cooked meat that was passed to him by the Indian was left untouched. The dark night journey passed before his wide, unsleeping eyes as the canoes sped on towards the Fort. The last hope had been torn from him. A dreadful waking nightmare pursued him. It was the complete wrecking of a strong mentality, the shattering of an iron nerve under a sledge-hammer blow that had been timed to the moment. He might walk to the scaffold with a step that was outwardly firm. But it would be merely the physical effort of a man in whom all hope is dead.
So the Fort landing was reached and passed. Kars alone disembarked, his canoe remaining ready to overhaul his companions at their next night camp. He was going to tell his story to those who must learn the truth. It was a mission from which he shrank, but he knew that his lips alone must tell it. He hoped and believed it was the final act of the drama these cruelly injured people must be forced to witness. Then the gloomy curtain would be dropped, but to rise again on scenes of sunlight and happiness. _